Endings
by WMisc
Summary: Even in death, their thoughts live on. A collection of drabble-shots; studies of each character.
1. Awaken

_A story of drabble-shots (as I call them), composing of thoughts and feelings in each character's death. Up first: Awaken._

* * *

**Awaken**

* * *

She'd always thought of death as something akin to sleep.

Perhaps it was the utter fear of it, fear that slowly, gradually turned into a soft acceptance. It would be an acceptance that nobody else really understood until they became old enough to contemplate death and its often overlooked aspects. Perhaps it was that, but Annabeth Chase had realized from a young age that death was just another obstacle to overcome.

She lays still, eyes closed, and breathes in–but it isn't breathing exactly, because in death, there is no need to inhale or exhale. She feels an airy freedom below her, and the curious lightness on which her body lays intrigues her as nothing has before. Her hand almost clenches into a fist–but not quite, because there's a heaviness that presses down on her that makes it impossible to move. Her chest–_almost_–moves upward in a familiar motion that is breathing–but then she remembers, and she–_almost_–slumps down to the softness below her again.

Perhaps it was the weightlessness to it, the feeling that you can leap to the stars, touch them, and continue on higher into space. Maybe it was the way you felt that you could do anything–_that you're invincible_–and that you can float up in the sky, hanging up in that beautiful blue among the clouds until you decide to fall back down to earth.

She hears the first sound that her new ears have ever heard, and it's the whoosh of impending impact. She braces herself, but when the sound stops, there's no pain, and no feeling of death anywhere around her. And she knows she's already dead from this single feeling, and the same lightness she had considered before consumes her. But still, she doesn't move, because gravity is pushing _down on her_, and she can't move. _Remember,_ the darkness tells her. _Remember._

And she remembers dropping, dropping, as if from the stars, as a single droplet from the heavens, a tear almost.

* * *

_i._

She listens to the comforting sounds of her mother, and fixes her new eyes on the glowing image of her mother, her mouth creased in a stiff, but affectionate, smile. There's darkness around her, but she looks interestedly at the pinpricks of light she can just make out in the distance. A finger appears out of her cradle and points inquisitively at one of these. "Mommy!" she gurgles happily, looking up at her mother.

The goddess Athena smiles down at her, proud as she never has been before of a child. "Yes, that's Jupiter, Annabeth," she says, catching the finger and tucking it back into the safety of the cradle. "That's your grandfather."

She looks up at her mother, and feels smothered in the love and affection she's offered. She laughs innocently, voice full of joy that only a baby can muster.

Her mother smiles once more, and with a flash of light, they're falling–through space, through time, and through the atmosphere.

* * *

She's dropping, just like she had in the beginning, and the journey is as exhilarating as the first. She tastes the wind, hears the drop, feels the rush, smells the descent–but she sees nothing but the blackness underneath her eyelids.

She struggles to alleviate this, but darkness refuses to give way to light. _Not yet_, the dark seems to whisper to her, curling around her mind. _Not yet. Sleep for a while._

And she doesn't argue with the voice, because she doesn't really want to awaken yet. Sleep is so comfortable, so familiar to her, that she finds it's impossible still to crack open her eyes, even if she had wanted to. So she surrenders, and settles in, and tries to sleep. After all, if sleep is akin to death–well, she'd been dead. She _was_ dead. So sleep held no fears for her.

She had no fear for death. Death had already found her.

The pressure lightens a little, and she breaths–or doesn't–easier. And with the lessening, she remembers a familiar lessening of responsibility on her shoulders, welcome to her as nothing else had been.

* * *

_ii._

She hides behind a thin sheet of metal, breathing hard, terrified as she listens intently to the footsteps coming closer. The voices are, surprisingly, quite young, maybe around her own age. But that doesn't bring her any comfort–children can do just as much harm as adults. She has learned _that_ by now.

She shifts a little out of discomfort, and her fist hits the metal with a clang. She smothers the sound as quick as she can, but she can't hide the quivers that shake the metal.

Their conversation stops, and there's silence. Somehow, she knows they're coming closer, and when her haven is exposed, she flies with a hammer, determined to escape if she can, or bring her attacker down with her.

But she finds that the two children, a girl and a boy, are willing to take her in, and she finds that she likes them. And amazingly, _they_ like _her._ It's a novel experience, and for the first time in seven years, she's truly happy. She lets the heavy weight of responsibility fall off her shoulders, and she feels as light as air.

* * *

She feels the heavy weight of responsibility on her, but not on her shoulders – it presses down on her stomach, her chest, and it renders her immobile. She wants to struggle, but also doesn't at the same time–the silence of sleep is so soft, so welcome to her that she has a hard time convincing herself that she should wake up, and that it's time to awaken. _Wake up, Annabeth,_ she says to herself, but her body doesn't obey her. Wake up.

But her pleads, her requests, her commands, they don't work, and her body continues to sleep. She feels despair, something that strikes her deep and true somewhere in the upper part of her chest, and it settles into her skin, seeping in.

Its journey into her reminds her of an orchestra, Mozart, making its way through the music and coming to the mournful section that brings tears to the eyes. Even now, as she imagines it, the salty bitter tears appear, and silently, they fall to the not-ground that lies below her. A well-conducted opera, a symphony, all of the parts working in harmony against one common subject.

And she _remembers_ the rise and fall of the invisible conductor's baton, moving in time with the beat as a tragedy of its own unfolds below.

* * *

_iii._

It's like a symphony, a tragedy – or a horrible opera at the sad, despairing point in the story. It's where the lovers are separated disastrously, where a death prevails, where freedom is lost forever. It's the point in the story where the audience leans in to stare at the actors on the stage, to weep and to cry, to beseech that there is a happy ending in this catastrophe.

But there's no happy ending, she knows, for Thalia. She looks back, even as her short legs run and hesitate, and sees her friend fighting, blue eyes open and fierce and alien in their rage, grief. And she's scared of her friend, but in the moment Thalia falls, she knows that there's no coming back.

Then, she had been afraid of death. To witness her sister–not in blood, but in something stronger than so – die before her eyes is terrifying and so deserving of her _anger_ that she screams uselessly, knowing that she's gone, _"Thalia!"_

But her friend is nowhere to be seen. She's about to turn right around and search for her body (did the monsters _eat her body?_ She would _kill them_, she_needs to hurt those who hurt Thalia_) when a hand picks her up and drags her to the border.

And in her mind's eye, as she's dumped unceremoniously on the ground in a fit of despair, she sees the conductor slash the air with the baton, and the tragedy is over. The audience sits back, wipes tears from their eyes, and applauds. She hears the cheer of the crowd in her ears, their tearful comments, and she wishes bitterly that her tragedy had just been that: a tragedy.

Her wishes now are only that: wishes.

* * *

She wishes that she is able to breathe here, in this strange darkness. Although she knows she doesn't need it, she needs the _familiarity_ of the action, something to tie her to herself, to reality. She is Annabeth Chase, and she is dead.

The last three words don't strike her as they used to. She had never been afraid of death, but still, the words would affect something in her when she heard them. Now that she's the one who is dead, she finds that she can accept the fact, and continue.

The heaviness on her is off, almost, and she can just barely curl a finger in her actual body before the strain against the immovable force stops her. She refuses to scream from frustration (not that she can make a sound, anyway), and the helplessness enters her mind. It's familiar, and she remembers.

* * *

_iv._

She's years older, both physically and mentally, and Luke's betrayal is old news to her. It still hurts, the scar stings, but the reopening of the cut, she is used to. Every time she hears his name mentioned, his words repeated from others, she feels that sharp and dulled pain.

It's the helplessness that she hates, that she has had no effect on his decision. He had loved her, she's sure of that, and then he becomes a traitor to everything he has ever known.

She doesn't understand it, but something tells her that Thalia and her _death_–the words still are sharp–had played a part in his decision. She stares into the forest where the boy next to her had first seen her former brother as an enemy, and struggles to understand his choice.

The boy had told her of the hatred he had seen from Luke, and she believes him when the green-eyed boy says that he is a traitor. She stares, making sense of the darkness, and feels helpless like she has never before.

The boy touches her arm, and she walks away with Percy Jackson, for once hating familiarity.

Maybe that's why she likes this son of Poseidon now–he doesn't remind her of _before._

(And yet, he reminds her _all too much_.)

* * *

She isn't as oppressed by the darkness anymore, as her eyes adjust and familiarize themselves to it. Her eyelids still refuse to open, but she almost curls her fingers into a fist, which is improvement. She struggles now to press her fingertips into her palm, a full fist, and thinks of reminders.

The new addition to her life, in the shape of green eyes and irritated fondness, had thrown her off-guard, but she'd soon realized that Percy Jackson wouldn't let her down, and she had a new friend. There had been a different humor in their relationship that she'd never experienced, and she'd found herself calling him stupid names and insulting him at every opportunity.

Insults had led to life, life to a mutual agreement, and that to happiness. Her years had been spent all too quickly, but it's the acceptance that she's able to remember the most.

The acceptance that sleep is so familiar to death is what keeps her from being afraid of death itself.

* * *

_v._

She strokes her husband's face, looking at the closed eyelids that are so dear to her, the lips, the fine cheekbones, and the messy, dark hair. She holds a limp hand, and breathes in the scent of her husband once more. She's reminded of the scent of the sea; she keeps the air in her, registering the individual smell once and for all in her mind, and letting go.

She lets go in all ways possible–she lets his hand fall, his face softly onto a pillow, and her breath out. She nods to a doctor near her, breathes another shaky breath in, and says simply, "Okay."

And it's over. For a moment, she envisions his green eyes opening for a flash, looking at her in that way that he never will again, and it's gone. A lump settles in her throat, and sternly, she reminds herself that she'd let go.

The doctor exhales with her, and with well-practiced grief, he says, "It's done. I'm sorry."

She accepts his manufactured grief without a murmur, and she gives way to her own.

But no tears drop down her face, and no sound from her throat. She silently prays to the gods for his safe passage to the Underworld, for him to access Elysium, and–above all–for him to wait for her. She feels selfish, asking this favor from him, but she knows that she would've done so too, and she accepts the selfishness of her soul without a murmur.

She knows that her acceptance is easy. And for the first time, she feels at peace.

* * *

Annabeth awakens to a familiar sea-green.

"Hey, Wise Girl," Percy says, grinning and helping her to her feet. She revels in his touch, the fact that she can still feel in death. "It's about time."

As he leads her to the gates of Elysium, she looks around and sees acceptance everywhere.

She knows that she has awakened to home.

* * *

_Disclaimer:_ I do not own, nor will I ever.

_This had originally been a one-shot, but instead, it's going to be a collection of each character's death and their thoughts/feelings. Up next: Zoë Nightshade._

_"Awaken" is somewhat based off the literal lyrics of "Drops of Jupiter" by Train._


	2. Starlight

_A story of drabble-shots, composing of thoughts and feelings in each character's death._

* * *

**Starlight**

* * *

She'd never imagined death to be so like starlight.

Zoë Nightshade casts her dying breaths into the face of her lady and glances up at the stars, black eyes matching the overcast skies above. She breathes quite calmly, despite poison running through her veins and a fatal blow sapping her courage.

She can feel her body shaking, and she feels cold as she has never before. _Cold._ The frosty bitterness strikes her in her wound, and she cries out, the pain overcoming her stubborn refusal _to give in._ But at the sight of the worry on her friends' faces, she clamps her mouth shut and pretends to be completely at ease.

She will not give in–_she will not._

She feels the rough bandages scrape the edges of the jagged cut, and internally, she winces at the sharp pain, and welcomes it. The pain brings her to reality–but reality at that moment _hurts_ so badly, and it's all she can do to not succumb to the soft easiness of death. "My lady," she breathes. "My lady."

She feels the fading silver glow about her flare momentarily as the goddess cradles her hand in a way she would've called sisterly. "My brave one," her lady says, and Zoë smiles at the name. The contact of the other's skin is warm and somehow comforting, and she finds that she feels safe in her impending death.

* * *

_i._

She's young in both experience and feelings, and the spray of the sea that she avoids only serves to remind her of that fact. But in the way of the young, she ignores her better instincts and laughs as she leaps from rock to rock, ducking under trees and skirting holes in the ground. Behind her, a heavier, lumbering figure chases her, grunting with the effort, laughing behind her, at her.

She feels as if she's walking on water when she looks down at the river rushing below her feet, and she calls greetings to the river spirits as she passes them, because at this moment, she's young, and she's free, and she's happier than she has ever been. They stare in curiosity and obvious amusement at the generally stoic Hesperide as she runs, hair flying and eyes bright, and turn back to each other in disapproving tolerance.

But Zoë doesn't see their expressions as she sprints, feet flying as she mock-flees away from her pursuer, and when he appears out of nowhere and catches her as she runs into him, she only laughs and tries to escape his hold.

His restraining arms form an embrace around her, and she returns it, so carefree in her youth, so _happy_.

And in his arms, Zoë can't help but feel safe, as if she were on top of the world; as if she could do anything she wanted, as if she could be happy.

* * *

She notices when Thalia calls the two other demigods over, but she doesn't register it in her mind, because in her mind, they're all there already. Her thoughts flick through images and memories of her sisters, her friends that kneel beside her, her lady, and she finds herself utterly at peace on the brink of death. "My lady," she breathes, feeling calmer than her friends do. "At last, it is here."

And she knows her lady understands her, because she feels the warm squeeze of friendship as the goddess holds her hands in an effort to alleviate the pain. It partially works, and the pain slightly recedes, although she's overcome by shivers and a feeling of _emptiness._

She understands, as only a dying person can, that the emptiness comes from the absence of life, and she knows that her time is drawing nearer. As welcome as the darkness is to her, she pushes it back for a little longer purely out of friendship.

And she finds that the lack of friendship is what she fears above all, has feared–so she commits to staying alive for just a while longer.

* * *

_ii._

_You, sister, are no longer a Hesperide._

She hunches against the bitter wind, and against the echoes of her sisters' cold words. She knows that she has deserved every insult and abuse thrown at her, just as she knows that Hercules has never been one to trust. Not with her secrets, nor her love.

_You, stranger, are no longer our sister._

She has risked–and lost–her family, life, and home, and all for a single hero who has betrayed her, left her, abandoned her. She is a thousand years old, and yet, she feels so young in this moment–so clueless, ignorant, so _stupid._

_Zoë Nightshade… you will leave our lands._

She feels an all-consuming rage for men–but most particularly heroes. She has read before about the infidelity of these so-called heroes, and more on men in general, and she begins to think that the entirety of the male population is but a waste of space and air.

_Now, and forever._

So she proceeds into the outside world, leaving behind all she has ever known and bringing with her a lack of friendship. As she walks into the mist, a whisper of wishes untold flits through her mind, and she wishes, feeling the emptiness so precisely as she flees, that her goodbyes had not been unsaid.

* * *

She begins to feel pain, despite her lady's best efforts, and she sees the light shining dimly around her growing fainter as time passes. She wonders at it, until she realizes that the silver glow that was usually omnipresent was merely a representation of her life. She now stares in fascination as the night becomes darker and darker in comparison, and she feels herself dying.

She sees more bandages binding her wounds and two of her friends (because she can't deny that her lady had been her friend all along) working frantically at her side. She longs to call out to them that she is okay, and to let her be, but she can't find the strength to make a sound. So she lies on the hard, unforgiving ground, and looks up at the stars.

It strikes her as curious that starlight should fade, just as human life does, and Zoë feels like a dying star, casting her final light upon the earth. She wonders if she would fade like the same brilliant pinpricks of light in the far distance, imperially and with dignity, or if she would simply… go out like a lantern.

She guesses, cringing from the pain and poison, that the latter is more likely.

But she has always been stubborn, and this is one way to prove her defiance to those who wished her harm, and to those who betrayed her. She now glares up at the stars, making out the faint outline of Hercules. _See me now, Hercules,_ she thinks. _See me now. I am loved, I have friends. And in death, I will not need you. See me now._

And she thinks that if she could have only _seen_ like she can now, she wouldn't be in this whole mess.

* * *

_iii._

She runs through the trees, darting and leaping, as she flees from her pursuer. She's reminded of an old, happier time, but she has no time to reminisce. This time, it's not play: it's real.

She sees a gap between the trees and dives for it, just before she hears the whoosh of impact behind her as the monster lunges and hits her. They roll in the momentum; she repeatedly trying to stab her knife into the beast, the monster trying to knock the weapon out of her hand.

And when the celestial bronze dagger flies out of her hand and disappears, she prepares herself for death. She doesn't try to hold on, she doesn't try to move; she just accepts the inevitable, and thinks that she deserves all of this trouble.

She closes her eyes to the world around her, and as the monster roars in triumph, falls unconscious.

Hours later finds her sitting in a tent, reciting the words to bind herself to the Hunt.

She remains bound by those words for the next two-thousand years.

* * *

She lies on the ground, supported only by soft hands cradling hers. Her eyes are closed, breathing calm. She's prepared to die.

She knows that the end is near, and as much as it pains her to use those words, she knows it's true. And it both saddens and cheers her: the end is finally near.

Her eyes, out of focus, are the only thing she would change about this moment of her death. She can't see the starlight, fading along with her as she does as well. She squints, and something in her shifts. The sky is suddenly clear.

"Stars," she says, no louder than a whisper. "I can see the stars again, my lady."

She has given her good-byes this time, and she rests on the rocky terrain in peace and content that she has left nothing to chance. She has forgiven everything that she can think to forgive, and she is finally ready. She feels the darkness creeping ever closer, and with a long, wistful sigh, she turns her head to fix her eyes on the night sky.

"Stars," she whispers, and to her lady, she thinks, _Thank you, Artemis._

And as she gently lets go, a simple letting go of life, she sees a light flicker in the dark sky and fade to black as Zoë Nightshade closes her eyes and breathes her last.

* * *

_iv._

Ladon had struck the blow that mattered, she knows, and she thanks the dragon for it. After two-thousand years, she has finally realized that immortality is a curse, and not a gift. She wishes that she had known sooner, but she thanks her dragon for realizing it for her.

And when her father hurts her, in the end, beyond magical repair, she thanks him silently as well. And perhaps Atlas knows, because he nods simply in her direction and lumbers off to do more damage elsewhere. And she lies, breathing fitfully, in the peace that finally, things are coming to an end.

With weak hands, she touches the silver circlet that she has worn for over two millennia with reverent hands. She grips it with hard fingers, and finally, when the imprints are in her skin, she releases the glowing metal with an acceptance she knows is only possible in the event of death.

And Zoë appears to be a lone body, among the remains of weapons and various objects, lying under the starlight in acceptance.

* * *

She looks down, now, from the heavens above, and among the stars, she gazes upon the world.

She sees her sisters, standing in one line, looking back at her. And she doesn't wonder at their acute constellation knowledge; most likely they had the sense that only sisters had. And she forgives them from her position in the sky, staring at their faces, so similar to her own.

She sees Artemis leaning over a body–her own, perhaps–and speaking, tears falling from her face. And Zoë longs to tell her lady that everything is all right–until she realizes that she isn't her lady anymore.

The loss is almost more than she can handle, but she turns away from them to find Hercules chasing after her again.

Even in the stars, she is running: a girl with a bow, running across the sky. She runs away, she runs toward, and she runs to the stars that she's now a part of, and the stars shine with her as she basks in her own light.

She is the lone star in the sky, wary of company, shining with a fierce intensity that none else can match. Zoë Nightshade fades from the world, and forever more lies in the stars.

* * *

_v._

_And because Fate commands it, as the constellation of the Huntress is born, a star fades out far away to become but starlight._

* * *

_Disclaimer:_ I do not own, nor will I ever.

_Written in an attempt to bring light (pardon the pun) to our famous Zoë Nightshade, the Huntress. Up next: Thalia Grace._


	3. Strike

_A story of drabble-shots, composing of thoughts and feelings in each character's death._

* * *

**Strike**

* * *

She'd always known death to be as quick as lightning.

She'd seen it, time and time again, and each time, death itself had come quickly, striking with accuracy and speed before the receiver knew what was happening. So she's used to it, used to the fact of death being quick, despite what others might say.

She knows, as she runs up the steep hill with hair flying and water streaming down from the heavens above, that if she dies on this day, it will be quick. And while it doesn't surprise her, it gives her comfort as she looks behind her fearfully at the monsters threatening to overcome her.

And the sound of her own feet slapping against the ground takes her back, the awareness of the run, to a familiar game from years before.

* * *

_i._

She stands on the plate, eyes focused and mouth pursed in concentration as she glares down at the pitcher, trying to look tall. She knows that she's small, and the jeers coming from around her don't help her.

She's determined to succeed, and she looks at the ball once more. A bead of sweat appears on her forehead, and the tension is palpable.

And it shoots from the pitcher's hand in a wide arc, and somehow, she manages to swing the bat in her hands around in time. With a jarring thud, she sees the ball fly away, far beyond what she could've been expected to hit–

And she's running, dashing, sliding across the bases, a lightning quick blur, the bat lying on the ground behind her as she rushes to the home plate once more, and she knows that she's too fast for them to catch her–

And as she crosses the home plate, a huge smile breaks out on her face, and the crowd explodes in cheers for _her_–

And she feels on top of the world, leaving the cries of "Strike!" behind her for this one game.

* * *

And she feels the thrill of exhilaration from that distant memory once more before a close growl behind her startles her into running faster, delaying her incoming death at those jaws, and the high of adrenaline rushes through her. She finds her face contorted in rage and fury at the gods for forcing this fate upon her, but she knows that it'll soon be over.

And this is the one time that she can't run fast enough, she can't run faster than lightning now, and she wonders if the storm rumbling above her is just for her.

Without her senses, she rolls and jumps, and behind her, a monster growls and cries out as something strikes it, and she feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up at the sharp crackle of lightning. She keeps running, wondering why her father was protecting her _now_ of all times, when she had finally accepted her death.

And she wonders if the lightning striking her enemies down is a late gift for her birthday from Zeus, and her feet slip in the mud coating her sneakers, her aged sneakers from a time before.

* * *

_ii._

She has left the life of baseball behind her as she matures, and switches to the drug of music. She sits and stares out her window, listening to both the howls of the storm and her music, watching the rain hit her window with frequent rhythm.

She finds her foot tapping in beat to the rain and the drums, and she sings along to every word absently, kicking her sneakered feet against the shabby bed. She ignores the sound of a party downstairs and her alcoholic mother, blocking out the noise.

The lightning and thunder manages to calm her down, and as she stares outside at the grim atmosphere, she sees her own face in the dark clouds. Her stormy-blue eyes blending in with the sky, stormy expression fitting the sky exactly, stormy mouth pouting in the same way as the dissatisfaction of the clouds.

It doesn't strike her as odd that she can identify herself amongst the beautiful carnage of a storm, and yet ignore all else.

* * *

The storm above her echoes from her past, and she pauses in her desperate escape. Annabeth's face is farther ahead, eyes worried as the girl looks back at her, and the sight of such anxiety at a young age brings back her memories, coloring them differently.

And she closes her eyes for but a short while, breathes in the smell of ozone and rain and remembers a face, dark eyes and hair, accusing glares.

And a scream from ahead, from the blonde girl, forces her into a slow jog, but her mind is not with the frantic fleeing of prey that she is; her mind is back with the screams and sobs and tears.

She recalls the horrible decision to run, and a final meeting, and her eyes close as she runs blindly (much like the first time) through the storm.

* * *

_iii._

She tiptoes downstairs, money stuffed in her pockets and a pack with clothes on her back. She holds maps in her teeth; her indecision is apparent in her expression as she almost makes it to the front door.

She is met with a lit room and a drunk, angry mother. She winces now and stops in her tracks. "Mom… hi."

Her mother stumbles and drops into a chair. "Where do you think you're going?"

She's surprised her mother can still form coherent sentences, but she replies bravely, "I'm running away."

The subsequent argument that erupts does nothing to change her mind, and she runs through the door, hearing the thunder rumble in the distance and the water droplets fall to the ground with a soft _pitter-patter_. She can hear the angry curses of the woman inside, but she feels no shame.

The mark that appears with a single drunken strike on her arm is quite visible as she runs through the darkness, leaving days of nothingness behind.

* * *

"_Thalia!"_

The voice so familiar and dear to her, so _loved_ (when had that happened?) brings her out of her memories, and she puts on an extra burst of speed mechanically. A monster claw from behind just barely misses her flailing limbs and she jerks them out of the way, a sudden and complete fear overcoming her.

And she blindly searches for the way to the voices screaming at her to hurry, Luke and Annabeth, and they're desperate. She stumbles forward, realizes the hill is steeper than before, and feels the hope rush up to her.

Maybe there is a way to survive this–maybe she _can_ beat the Fates.

And then something jerks her back by the straps of her pack, and she's flying in the air, striking the air with a fist as if she were stage-diving. And another call, an anguished shout sounds, and with an effort, she pulls herself to the ground.

And she wishes that she were dead already–but it's _Luke_ who's asking, and she can't refuse him anything.

So she gives up the ease of death and flying and struggles to survive.

"_Thalia!"_

* * *

_iv._

"I know what you're doing, Thalia," he snaps at her, twelve-year old self pleading and bitter with old memories, expression so different from the average teenager that any normal passerby would stop and stare at him. She doesn't care about his differences, however.

"Luke. You're overreacting. Chill," she says, more to piss him off than to actually convince him, and runs a hand over the imprints on the bench she sits on. Memories, imprinted on the worn wood. She wonders why anybody would ever want to make memories "last forever".

"_Thalia._ It doesn't work. Trust me. It just makes your life even more screwed up, even for a demigod."

She doesn't answer, nor does she give a damn about herself anymore. She drops a free hand to a pocket and feels the outline of a cigarette case and lighter. But before she can do more than slide it out, his hand is around her wrist–not the tender hold of a lover, nor the rough and friendly pull of a friend–they're constraints.

Luke looks at her, she at him. His eyes are furious, and unforgiving. Hers are unrepentant and empty. She withdraws her hand and laughs cynically. "It's been a while since I've cared about life, Luke," she says calmly, factually, fumbling with the lighter and drawing out a cigarette.

And she's looking down when he presses his lips to hers, so she doesn't manage to see his expression as he kisses her fiercely, passionately. But she sure as hell _feels_ it.

That night, she drops the rectangular box into a McDonald's trash can. After all, there's something in life for her now.

* * *

…And she remembers that first kiss, and she knows her decision. At last, she can stay. She breathes in the air and wonders at the easy feeling of inhaling and exhaling, and tastes the rain on her tongue. She smells the lightning around her, thunder rumbling, and relaxes at once, stopping in place.

"_Thalia!"_

The cry is a scream, accompanied by footsteps quickly drawing closer. She looks up from her familiar sneakers and smiles sadly at the comer; it's Luke.

"Thalia, you can't–you can't, I won't let–" he breathes, sobs threatening to break in, and she doesn't know where the tears and rain begin. But she smiles, the last she can do, and lets acceptance wash over her.

And she wraps her arms around him for the last time, hugging him ferociously to herself, and finally lets him go. _No more good-byes,_ she thinks with finality as his lips move against hers for the last time. _No more kisses._

She has committed herself to death, but it doesn't mean that she has to enjoy it. And she kisses his cheek as she turns and whispers, "Only a single strike left to go."

With her last strength, she pushes Luke towards the hill and turns to face death in the sky, feeling at peace with herself and her father. _What a time,_ she thinks, _to accept my parentage._

And with her eyes closed to the sky for the last time, thunder rumbles overhead and lightning flashes, and she disappears.

Thalia Grace has finally stricken out.

* * *

_v._

_A pine tree sits on Half-Blood Hill, calm and exuding a safe atmosphere within the camp. Demigods conduct war games within its boundaries without fear, and the tree is happy at last._

_They name it Thalia's Tree, after the girl who had sacrificed her chances and finally stricken out._

* * *

_Disclaimer:_ I do not own, nor will I ever.

_Written to explain a special character, with alludes to certain circumstances; Thalia Grace had always been destined to strike out. Up next: Clarisse La Rue._


	4. Resistance

_A story of drabble-shots, composing of thoughts and feelings in each character's death._

* * *

**Resistance**

* * *

To the last moment, she resists.

She lies on a stiff white bed in an uncomfortable white room that smells of sickness and coughs repeatedly, her lungs wheezing with the effort of drawing in air. She's lying on the bed of the damned, and she knows what awaits her, approaches her, but that's not what makes her want to scream in fury. No, it's the bed itself that is so intolerable for her.

She has to struggle to close her fingers around a visitor's soft, tear-streaked palm, and the weakness scares her as nothing has ever scared her. She's never imagined it to end so slowly, so gently.

She doesn't like it.

There's something about demigods, she knows, that makes them impervious to the idea of death. Maybe it's the constant fear (and secret thrill) of becoming discovered by mortals and monsters alike, or maybe the fact of an afterlife waiting at the end of their journeys. But either way, death has never really scared demigods. And she vows that she will not be afraid.

No, it's not death that she's frightened of. It's the idea of this slow, slow passage to the goal, this weak submission to that which threatened to overcome.

Maybe it's the weakness that she finds so hard to resist.

She's never been so _weak_ before in her life, not ever. She'd always been the tough one, the strong one–most often in a rough way, but she could at least be relied on to never fail. She'd stood alone one time, her fallen comrades unmoving around her, and screamed her defiance without hesitation at the opponent.

But that had been before; now, she is constrained in this pale, pale hospital, pale from all the washings in attempts to cover up the stench of the dying imprisoned within the white walls.

* * *

_i._

She's bent over a straggly clump of weeds, stomach heaving, bile spewing from her mouth as she struggles against the disgusted, repulsed, _exhilarated_ feeling that sweeps through her mind, clearing it of all other thoughts than of blood and destruction. She resists, but it still somehow manages to snake its way through the cracks in her defenses and spread like a wildfire inside of her.

She burns with hatred, disgust, and a strange excitement that had woken up within her at the sight of such carnage.

She's scared, afraid–_of herself._

She groans and vomits over the ground once more, hoping sincerely that nobody is behind her, watching her, witnessing this single weakness in her. No, not Clarisse La Rue; she's the tough bully with stringy hair and an overly-feminist attitude that _nobody_ thinks is weak.

When the sickness finally stops, she's left with a bad taste in her mouth, and she turns around, covering her mouth with a hand to be met with an unopened bottle of water and a wad of napkins. She stops at this and raises her eyes (she's not so tall in those days, to her dismay) to a smiling face that somehow continues in this manner after seeing her bloody, messed up state.

She's not feeling quite so generous with her gratitude, even though she has a hard time not grabbing them from the guy's hands. "What do you want?"

His smile drops a little, and he looks a little abashed. "I, uh, heard you throwing up over here and thought you could use some help. Wow, you're a _mess_," he adds, stepping back a little from her snarling face. "Anyways, here you go."

He tosses the simple objects on the ground in front of her and claps her back as if she were one of his guy friends. She's used to the familiar gesture, even in her current state. "Chris Rodriguez," he says, flashing a bold smirk as he runs his eyes up and down her body. She turns red; she might be a feminist, but she knows when a guy's checking her out. "Welcome to war, kid."

She watches him as he strolls away, looking completely unconcerned with the rest of the world as he whistles a fast, lively tune that catches her somehow. She rinses, spits, wipes her mouth, and decides that she likes this Chris Rodriguez. Not that she'd show it, of course.

She catches a glimpse of red and looks down reflexively, muscles tensing at a possible enemy–but it's just the sight of the sunlight, glinting a bloody red off the blood on her bloody sword.

Her stomach clenches and she bends over the weeds again, trying to resist the fierce pride that shoots up her spine at the evidence of her skill as she retches over and over again.

This is her first battle. It's then that she first knows that she's a daughter of Ares.

* * *

The white walls around her are tinted with a bloody red for a brief moment, and she feels the familiar shiver of excitement shoot up her spine as she relives the glory of war–but it's soon over, and she becomes but a frail body lying in an overused bed, awaiting its death to come and relieve it from pain. That's all she's become–an _it._ Not even deserving of a gender, of an acknowledgement that she was a living, breathing human being.

The latest visitor leaves, and the distant, unfocused sound of sobs become softer as the _click-click_ of heels exit. She closes her weak eyelids and listens to the hard, real sound that grounds her for another moment. She opens her eyes again, and wills everything to come into focus.

A television is blaring quietly somewhere above her, but she doesn't pay attention to the latest celebrity scandals or the weather reports. She stares intently at the machines by her bedside (she doesn't know what the hell any of them _do_ for her) and watches her life drip away, second by second.

She almost hears the water dripping, from a leaking faucet almost, and she winces instinctively. It's become a habit thing with her, starting not so long before, and she's tempted to call a nurse in to turn the noise _off_ until she realizes it's probably all in her head, and her request would be one of the terminally ill.

So she tries to block out the infernal, perpetual dripping, but somehow it gets into her head and makes her almost welcome death.

* * *

_ii._

She's leaning against a white, white wall, one very similar to one she would come to know well in the future, and she takes a deep breath, and another. She leans against this unused wall amongst stray packages of strawberries and ambrosia and holds her head in her hands; an unusual pose for the daughter of Ares.

She has come down here to this basement where she knows nobody will find or disturb her grieving for the past week, since she has found out that Chris, that same half-blood from so long ago, had changed sides. _Traitor._ It is the only word that will be used to describe him now, she knows, and she doesn't think she can bear the horrible feeling inside that tells her that he never–

She breathes again and relaxes, then stiffens once more. Well, never what? Cared for her?

She'd noticed the signs only a few days before his quiet exit. Shifty eyes, reluctance to talk… it reminded her of the pamphlets they used to give out at her school. _Suicide,_ those read. _Keep an eye out for these signs of depression._

Well, she'd been too late. And there was no chance in hell she'd be able to get him back now. She slid a little down the wall she leaned against.

She'd been sort-of friends with that Aphrodite girl, Silena Beauregard. It had been her who she had asked advice on little things, such as getting a guy's attention (_Nobody in particular, of course,_ she had assured the amused black-haired girl) and on some serious matters, like when she'd explained the desperate _need_ to impress her father. _Had_ been because although they'd been through a lot together (while seemingly _not_ together as friends), she'd been assured by the confident girl that Chris was just probably lost, and not a _traitor._

But it had been a week, and there was no sign of his return. Silena had tried consoling her a few times, but she'd pushed her away; she didn't want her false promises of his returns. She'd given up on real friendships: nothing good came of them.

_Traitor._ It was such an ugly word, the mere sound of the whisper with which it came making the emptiness somehow feel even worse.

Above her, the steady _drip-drip_ of water continues, gradually soaking her messed-up hair. She doesn't care.

This is her first experience of real emotional pain, rather than physical (that she can remember).

She doesn't like it, and retreats back into herself.

* * *

In her dreams (because now, closing her eyes for a long while causes her to pass out without any sign indicating so), she dreams of happier times.

There was the first time she'd first written her name in shaky, but legible, letters. She'd looked up proudly at her mother, and she remembers hazily that her mom wasn't such a boozy wreck at the time. No, she'd been standing by with a big smile on her face, and had pressed a kiss to her forehead.

And then there was the first time she'd ever been kissed. She smiles, both in her dreams and on her outside façade of a sleeping corpse, and she relives the moment of his approach, her confusion and anticipation, and the warm feeling of his lips against hers. She'd laughed, her laugh so low and gruff in comparison to the Aphrodite girls' high, tinkling giggles, while he had been kissing her, and she could feel the smile that was forming on his face.

But as with most demigods, her good dreams turn into nightmares, and the smile drops to be replaced with a frown. Monsters swarm at her from all sides, and her dream-self realizes there is no way of defense or offense. She's completely naked of armor and weapons.

She's unable to remember a time when this has ever happened.

* * *

_iii._

She's standing in an enclosure, a goat enclosure with no goats to be seen, sword ready as she looks furiously at her opponent. She couldn't care less that he's her half-brother, or that she's armor-less–she has her sword, she's not defenseless, and that's all that matters.

In her fury, she thinks of her father, and the brief feeling of pride she gets when she imagines his pride in her disappears when Deimos transforms.

He becomes taller, muscular, dressed in black leather and sunglasses, with anger pummeling her from his being. She drops her sword in her shock and absolute fear; she's defenseless now.

_Clarisse_, Ares thunders, eyes blazing a fiery red behind sunglasses. It's there, the fury, the disapproval, the _disappointment_, behind the scowl etched in his face, behind the bristling eyebrows, and it's _killing_ her, all with but one word from this–this _image_ of her father. _Clarisse, you failed me, you stupid girl. Bested by your own brother. You're nothing to me now._

"No," she cries, falling to her knees and clasping her hands tightly together in plea. "No, Father!"

_Nothing,_ a voice in her mind whispers, working its way into the deep recesses of her mind as she struggles to fight off the phantom of her father, the fear that she _is_ nothing, lodging itself into her thoughts. _Nothing._

When she finally manages to stand up to her father-brother, she feels a fierce sense of pride–but it's soon overshadowed by the disgrace in letting some scrawny son of Poseidon see her at her most vulnerable.

Only when she is leaving from the temple of Ares, the boy long gone and her father's grudging praise still ringing in her ears, does she let herself succumb to the shame.

* * *

Her heart rate increases as she sleeps, and, unseen by her, a nurse comes in, checks on her, and leaves again to tend to other busy work in the hospital. She remains, curled up slightly in her bed, pale from the horror of her memories, restlessly rolling from side to side as her younger self–young, bold, confident, _strong_–lives through the terrors of her demigod life. Even in her nightmares, the hazy thought comes up to the forefront of her mind: _How had she survived this long?_

It figures, really, that she would fall prey not to a giant monster from the depths of hell (or Tartarus, in her case) but to an invisible enemy, eating away at her from the inside. How pathetic was that?

But somehow, her dreams morph into something warm and agreeable that causes a small smile to light up on her face, and thinks she feels the slightest of pressures in her hand, as if someone were holding it–but she dismisses this as imagination. Visiting hours are over, aren't they? She can't be sure; her mind is fuzzy, and she's unwilling to pull away from the tender caress of pleasant memories in any case. So she doesn't.

But her dreams are no longer nice and peaceful. A tear slides out from a closed eye and falls to land on her pillow. She doesn't notice.

* * *

_iv._

She's charging through the enemy, crushing them beneath the wheels of her chariot and probably causing more confusion and havoc among them than necessary, but in all honesty, she didn't give a damn. She sees the girl's body, her _friend's_ body, _Silena's_ _body_, lying on the ground, smoking with the beast's poison. She's angry–no, _much_ more than angry. She's furious, to say the least. There were no words to describe what she was feeling.

Gritting her teeth, she forces the image of her friend–_Silena_, who'd helped her win her first crush's affections, who'd consoled her after he'd left, who celebrated with her when he came back, who was her _friend, _her _sister_–out of her mind and focuses on disgracing the ugly _monster_ that had killed her by scraping its carcass over its allies, killing them in the process.

She hardly notices the red fire encasing her outline protectively as a shield while she screams insults and curses at the opposing army; nor does she see the effect her fierce, unceasing attacks have on the morale of her own side. All she knows is that she's causing a hell of a lot of damage, that she's avenging the sacrifice her friend had made for her, that she's finally doing her father justice. But even that last thought is blocked out as she mindlessly provokes the enemy, ignoring the spears and arrows falling harmlessly against her aura. She doesn't care about Ares or making him proud right now; all she cares about is making them _pay_.

But in the end, as she calms down and begins to become sensible again, she realizes that there's nothing she can do to save Silena now. No, she's _dead_; and she, the war god's daughter, knows that all of her friends will die one way or another. And she respects the Aphrodite girl for knowing this and following through faithfully, facing her death bravely. As brave as a child of Ares would be.

But even the blessing of Ares–proud, her father's _proud_ of her–fails to relieve her of the terrible grief that overcomes her.

She kneels by Silena's body for a long time and mourns for a lost sister.

* * *

It's quiet in her hospital room; except for the constant beeping of the machines all around her, her soft breathing, and the occasional, weakly mumbled word, it's very silent.

Beneath her closed eyelids, her mind is free, and she's given a break from memories that break her control in favor of happy recollections, passing quickly as if it were a cheesy montage of video clips. Her first fight won, the moment she'd found out she wasn't alone in the world of misguided, violent teenagers, her first quest, the discovery that she had made friends that weren't just like her…

She relieves that first kiss over and over again, just to remember the feel of lips pressing on hers, and pretends that the tingly feeling of her mouth is a rather passionate kiss, and–passing entirely over the deaths of many–remembers the surprised, wary pride that lights up as a fire in her chest as her father pounds her on the back enthusiastically, telling her in _proud_ tones how well she'd done in killing that damn drakon.

And then a whole host of newer, fresher memories than those before: her first date and multitudes of dates after that, numerous victories in war, moving in with her boyfriend and out of camp, the _happiness_ they had without being engaged or married or–or anything. He'd understood, too, and hadn't pushed her; he'd understood her hatred for the institution, understood the horrors of marriage she'd witnessed. And, slow in coming, the moment she knew she loved that Chris Rodriguez, because he knew her better than anybody did and wasn't repulsed by who she was. And that time they'd proven their love for each other by utilizing a convenient bed in the room they had confessed to each other in.

And–deep down–she knows that she's ready, accepting the weakness for the beginning of the end (a term that had never made sense to her until that second). She smiles peacefully in her sleep and finally stops resisting.

* * *

_v._

_He watches as the girl lies still in the hospital bed, benignant expression so different from her usual belligerent one. But he thinks fervently that he would give anything to trade that calm, nice expression for the alive, aggressive one, healthy and victorious. He knows that this miracle isn't coming, but it doesn't stop him from hoping and wishing._

_It doesn't stop his pain, seeing her sleep the way she never sleeps: quietly._

_He watches helplessly as the girl he loves stop breathing, registering the sound of her heart rate decreasing, numb. He's unable to move as some white-coated doctor (unknown to him at this moment, although he knows all of their names) rushes in, checks her vitals, and tells him that he is sorry._

_He stays by her side until the very end, cradling her hand tenderly, kissing her lips gently only minutes before she passes, wondering whether she knows that he is there._

_But, then again, she's never been afraid of death._

_At last, he quietly lets go of her, the limp arm falling onto the thin mattress. He puts his head in his hands and cries, because he knows that Clarisse La Rue would never pass so easily–unless she'd stopped fighting._

_Because he knows that, to the last moment, she would resist._

* * *

_Disclaimer:_ I do not own, nor will I ever.

_Written to hopefully portray Clarisse in... a different way, I suppose. And if you didn't understand v., that is from Chris Rodriguez's perspective. Up next: Rachel Elizabeth Dare._

_Thank you for reading; please feel free to leave a review! :)_


End file.
